Extraordinary Ice Cubes
by HelsinkiAngels
Summary: Denmark has always had his beloved beer to comfort him in times of need, and he knows exactly what the perfect beer tastes like. So what happens when Iceland, four years old and ambitious for exploration, decides to create a custom brew for Uncle Denmark, all by himself?


Curious, tiny fingers played with the contents of a small, plastic tub. This was not a tub of clay, or plastic figurines of the sort designed for small children. No, this tub was filled with several sponge-like cubes, all of them slimy and rubbery. Some were white; others, darker and tougher to the touch. All let off a terrific stench.

Iceland did not seem fazed by the smell. He busily emptied the cubes onto the floor, juice and all, and stacked them up in an awkward formation. He could never get more than three or four to stay, and every time they fell and bounced, he pouted, kicking his feet, then tried again. His hands became covered in that smelly residue, which he occasionally paused in his building to lick at.

Somewhere behind him, Denmark ambled over to the fridge and pulled out three beers. He wrinkled his nose, looking about for the location of that smell, but once he'd opened the beers, he lost interest, intent on downing one of his beloved drinks while he clumsily walked back to the sofa. Settled in, he began to relax, finishing off his first drink, and starting on the second.

Iceland saw him sit down, and he suddenly became very focused on the last full beer bottle that Denmark had left on the coffee table. His sparkles danced around with his thoughts, and he clambered to his feet, grabbing some of his cubes as he went. A few dropped out of his grip as he traveled, leaving a trail of toxicity behind him.

Denmark was in bliss. The last sip was _always_ perfect, he figured, and he relished it, tilting his head all the way back – thus rendering Iceland unseen, as the toddler approached the table and reached for the beer.

With his face scrunched up in concentration, Iceland brought both handfuls of cubes to the mouth of the bottle, trying to cram too many into such a small space. Many fell to the table, but he persisted, that focused frown turning into a pleased, beaming grin as each little piece splashed into the drink, making it froth. Excited, Iceland placed the last one, then gripped the bottle with both hands and turned to face Denmark, just as the older nation brought his head back forward and spotted Iceland.

"Hey there!" Denmark greeted, matching Iceland's smile. "Where'd you come from, huh?"

Iceland offered the beer proudly. "Bjór!" he declared.

"That's right!" Denmark laughed, taking the beer and ruffling Iceland's hair. "Thanks a lot. You know how to get the good stuff."

Now, Iceland watched expectantly, awaiting the results on his custom beer recipe. Denmark, as unsuspecting as ever, did as he always did on three-round beer hits, and nearly swallowed the neck of the bottle as he guzzled it.

About half the bottle was gone before he stopped, freezing absolutely, his throat closing off. Slowly – ever so slowly – he brought the drink down, the color of his skin going from stark white to a nice shade of sickly green. His cheeks were still full with the last swallow he'd tried to take, and his eyes were wide.

In agony, he forced himself to down that mouthful, if only to escape from the godawful taste. But he discovered, to his horror, that whatever had tainted the drink simply would not go away. The flavor remained glued to his taste buds, and he panicked now, scrambling stupidly for the other, now empty bottles, trying to extract mere drops onto his tongue. Panting and wheezing, he stared into the last bottle, swirling it, determined to identify whether or not this was some kind of new, torturous date-rape drug. He spotted the cubes, floating around lazily, and blinked.

Iceland was still grinning, and he clapped his hands excitedly, oblivious to Denmark's nausea. His happy laughter made Denmark look up at him now. The nation's jaw fell.

"Iceland," he croaked, "What did you do to my beer?!"

"Elska bjór?" Iceland asked, suddenly shy.

Denmark had no response. Still maintaining the color of an old pear, he stood unsteadily, reached for Iceland, and snatched the boy up under his arm, gathering the contaminated beer with the other. Iceland gave a squeak of alarm, then began flailing in Denmark's grip, as Denmark marched quickly across the house with him. He left the house, heading out back, and marching towards a small shed.

Norway appeared before Denmark could ever reach the place. He gave a friendly wave to Denmark, then hesitated and frowned when he saw Iceland, squirming and screaming under Denmark's arm.

"What are you doing?" he asked, puzzled. "He doesn't like that, Denmark..."

Too breathless for a response, Denmark stopped in front of Norway, setting Iceland down. Iceland darted away from him, right to Norway, and hid behind his brother's legs.

"YOUR little brother," Denmark said, "Tried to POISON me!"

He presented the beer bottle, holding it at arm's length. Norway stared at it, then took it and examined the insides. He, too, spotted the little cubes, and at once, he brought it to his nose, sniffing. Shaking his head, he handed it back to Denmark.

"It's not poison," he concluded. "At least... well, anyway, it's not going to kill you."

"But he put it in my beer!" Denmark protested.

"He's four."

"He's scary! What if he puts something else in there next time? Like cyanide?!"

Norway sighed. "And where would he get that? Besides, I told you – it's not poison. It's hákarl."

"It's _what?_"

"Hákarl."

"What?!"

"Shark! Rotten shark. It's just... a thing of his."

"It's disgusting!"

Still hidden behind Norway's knees, Iceland heard this, and his face suddenly fell. He looked up at Denmark, then down at the beer bottle, which remained unfinished. His grip on Norway's trousers tightened, and his lower lip quivered.

Norway, feeling that grip, glanced down at him, then raised an eyebrow at Denmark.

"Are you _sure_ you don't like it?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure! It almost made me-"

"I don't think he likes that, either."

Confused by this, Denmark stopped, then realized Norway was indicating downward. His eyes went wide.

"Ohhhh, no, no, no," he began, stepping back.

"You'll upset him," Norway sing-songed, hiding a sly grin.

"Norway, seriously, stop it."

Norway sighed, giving up, and turned around to face Iceland. He crouched down in front of his brother, looking him in the eye.

"You remember what happened when you put fish oil in Uncle Finland's homebrew?" he said.

Iceland kept pouting, but he nodded.

"Uncle Finland didn't like that very much, did he?"

"Nei..."

"Uncle Denmark is like Uncle Finland – he doesn't like fish-stuff in his drink. Okay?"

"Okay."

Norway smiled, and Iceland grinned back sheepishly, before he tottered on over to Denmark. He hugged Denmark's knees, looking upward and searching for forgiveness. Despite his misgivings, Denmark found himself grinning, too, and he considered his beer bottle with his fingers, before offering it to Iceland. Norway swept in and confiscated it quickly.

"Right," he said hastily, tucking the beer away. "Iceland, go play with your planes. I need to have a little talk with Uncle Denmark."

Iceland clapped with joy, stomping his feet, and bolted for the door, stumbling over the steps of the deck as he went. Norway and Denmark watched him go, before Norway folded his arms at Denmark.

"Speaking of poisoning..." he muttered.

"Hey," Denmark replied, "No harm in teaching them early. Before you know it, he'll be outdoing Finland and Russia!"

"Denmark..."

"I know, I know – he's four."

Norway sighed. "Come on, then. Let's go get you another beer. And this time, try to keep it out of his reach, yeah?"

They followed Iceland's path, back into the house, relieved to have resolved the issue. As soon as they entered, however, they heard an excited squeal, and their faces fell as the overwhelming smell of hákarl struck them, closely followed by the sight of Iceland, standing on the table and flinging shark cubes across the room by the dozens...

* * *

**_A note on the taste of rotten shark:_**

_It was my understanding that the infamous hákarl was meant to be "the most disgusting food in the world". Upon my arrival to Iceland, I prepared myself to try it, just to see how true the hype was. There was a great deal of preparation: I obtained my sample tub of shark, and immediately purchased a coke and pylsa (hot dog), anticipating that I would need __something to wash out the taste afterward. I sat in front of the Harpa building in Reykjavík, positioning myself near a rubbish bin, should I need it. Then, I opened the toxic tub, and selected a single little cube-shaped slice of meat, placing it on my tongue.  
_

_It was perhaps the most anti-climactic moment of my life, for I expected to keel over and start seizing and frothing at the mouth. When no such thing happened, I took another piece. And another. My god... I liked it.  
_

_It's not chocolate, or something you snack on on a daily basis. It's more like very strong cheese, and the smell is far worse than the taste. Karalora informed me that smoking had officially killed my tastebuds, and this was why I could eat __hákarl_ like a bag of crisps.  


_I'll try to shut up now, but only after this shoutout: Thank you, little unknown Norwegian boy on a bus, for bringing me the phrase, "Elska Pepsi?", which came so handy here in this story._


End file.
